Creepypasta Theatre
by kade32
Summary: A collection of my favorite Creepypasta stories found online.
1. Chapter 1

**_Story 1: The Red Wristband_**

When you're admitted to a hospital, they place on your wrist a white wristband with your name on it. But there are other differently colored wristbands which symbolize other things. The red wristbands are placed on dead people. There was one surgeon who worked on night shifts in a school hospital. He had just finished an operation and was on his way down to the basement. He entered the elevator and there was just one other person there. He casually chatted with the women while the elevator descended. When the elevator door opened, another woman was about to enter when the doctor slammed the close button and punched the button to the highest floor.

Surprised, the woman reprimanded the doctor for being rude and asked why he did not let the other woman in. The doctor said, "That was the woman I just operated on. She died while I was doing the operation. Didn't you see that red wristband she was wearing?" The woman smiled and raised her arm. "Something like...this?"

 _ **Story 2: The Photograph Pile**_

A young girl walking home from school found a small pile of Polaroid photos lying in the gutter. There were twenty in all, neatly wrapped in a rubber band. She picked them up and as she walked, she started to browse. The first photo was that of a ghostly white man on a black background, standing just far enough away from the camera so that she couldn't make out his features. The girl slid the photo to the back of the stack and looked at the next one. The photo was of the same man now standing a bit closer. The girl flipped through the next several photos quickly.

With each one, the man in the picture came a bit closer and his features were a bit clearer. Turning the last corner to her house, the girl noticed that the man in the photos seems to be looking at her, even when she moved the stack from side to side. It frightened her, but she kept flipping them over, one by one. By the nineteenth picture, the man was so close his face completely filled the frame. His expression was the most horrifying the girl had ever seen. Walking up the driveway, she turned to the last photo. This time, instead of an image, there were two words: "Close enough."

Hearing a scream outside their house, the girl's brother rushed to the door and opened it. But all he saw was a pile of photographs lying on the doorstep. The top one looked like an extremely pale version of his sister, but she was standing too far back for him to be sure.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Story 1: Observe and Absolve**_

There's an abandoned mental hospital at the top of a hill in Worcester, Massachusetts. Once every five years, an old, rusty box spring appears within the courtyard of the hospital. If you can sneak inside and sleep through the night on the bed, then in the morning, standing at the foot of the bed will be a strange-masked man wearing a shirt that reads "Observe and Absolve". The man will then give you a picture. And this picture will show you how you will die.

If the picture is of the man standing before you, well,...running won't help.

 ** _Story 2: Dance, Dance_**

There was once a girl who had an illness and was bed-ridden for the majority of her life. She was recently diagnosed to die within the next couple of months. So her parents decided to spend as much time with her as they could before her time came. They decided that the best thing was to go camping at a local site for a little bit, since the daughter was stuck in the hospital for so long.

When they finally reached their destination, they pitched the tent, unpacked everything and started a campfire. The mother was constantly filming the area and her daughter while the father went out for more firewood. It was getting dark when he came back, but he suddenly heard the mother scream! So he rushed over to discover that his daughter was standing on her feet and was doing a wild, erratic dance before she suddenly dropped dead.

After all the funeral processions and grieving subsided, the parents wanted to see the video the mother recorded on that very night. They put the tape in the player and began to watch. At first it just showed the mother looking at the scenery and random animals that passed by in the distance, but as the time frame skipped, it jumped to when she was inside the tent with the daughter as she stood up and began to jerk around. But there was something wrong. It first was in the corner of their eyes, but as they replayed the scene, their horror became more and more real.

The entire time the daughter was 'dancing', there was a ghastly white hand latched onto the top of her head.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Story 1: The Man in the Snow**_

You are home alone and you hear on the news about the profile of a murderer who is on the loose. You look out the sliding glass doors to your backyard and you notice a man standing out in the snow. He fits the profile of the murderer exactly and he is smiling at you. You gulp, picking up the phone to your right and dialing 911. You look back out the glass as you press the phone to your ear and notice he is much closer to you now. You then drop the phone in shock. The blood freezing in your veins. There are no footprints in the snow.

It's his reflection.

 ** _Story 2: Blueberries_**

He smashed the dark oak desk into shards of stray wood strewn about the chamber with his sledgehammer. After all, he couldn't eat the whole thing in one bite. As the veins in his eyes pulsed and his teeth ground for individual superiority over the others, he tried to think of something that didn't involve what the guard outside the heavy door was going to watch him eat through the bulletproof glass. "Blueberries. They're nice. I remember blueberries. The best ones came from the big bushes outside of the McCoy house. I'm going to eat a desk for a crime I didn't commit. Blueberries! Blueberries." He laid his hammer down, sat on the floor, and stared for a few minutes at the wall. He eventually picked up a dime-sized chip of wood. He held his nose and opened his mouth wide. "This is a blueberry. This is a McCoy blueberry. They'd always be happy to give me their blueberries and this is one of them." As he swallowed it whole, he gagged as he felt the edges of the chip cut the lining of his throat. He forced it into his stomach. The back of his mouth became sour with little drops of blood. "That was a blueberry, a very sweet blueberry, picked at just the right time. I probably liked it."

He choked down more chips. More blood came up and nausea set in from the wood and it's varnish. He couldn't throw up; then he would have to start over. He got to his feet and raised the sledgehammer high above his head to make more of these pieces out of the bigger ones. "I love blueberries, I'm going to eat a lot of blueberries." The door flung open and before he could say anything, the guard took his hammer and slammed the door. "Well, it looks like I'm going to be eating big blueberries." He sat on the floor and grabbed a foot-long length of splintered oak. He tried to break it, but it would only break in half. He pointed his face at the fluorescent light on the ceiling and opened his mouth wide. "This is a blueberry. I know it looks nothing like a blueberry, but it is." He nudged the wood past the opening of his throat. He felt it scrape, he felt it slide, gently, gently, gently. "This is a blueberry. It doesn't taste like one, but it probably is."

He felt his mouth water and in doing so, he gagged. He couldn't breathe. He tried to pull the wood out of his throat, but the edges were caught on the inside of him. With an anguished scream saturated by his torn throat, he ripped the stick out and threw it to the other side of the chamber. His mouth was a fountain of saliva and blood. His esophagus might as well have been on fire with the pain. He turned his head and saw a sturdy board that made the surface of the desk. He only split it in half with the hammer. "That is not a blueberry."


	4. Chapter 4

_**Story 1: Scientist's Log**_

[12/7/2007 12:31 AM]

A new find was brought into the lab today. Men working the demolition of a condemned warehouse at this facility discovered a rusty oil barrel that seemed to exude cold. Preliminary electromagnetic field readings yielded chaotic data before the equipment died. Barrel appears to be constructed of stainless steel and, again, radiates cold.

[13/7/2007 9:00 PM]

We opened the barrel today inside a sealed chamber. The chamber immediately frosted over and an unidentified entity was found within the barrel. It appears to be gaseous and black, as if the very light surrounding it is to be "sucked in" by it's presence. It appears to be sentient, but does not communicate in any understood way. Biological matter that comes into contact with the Entity seems to disintegrate.

[14/7/2007 10:11 AM]

An intern entered the sealed chamber alone today, without his hazard suit. We...we didn't see him again. The Entity has double in size since being released from containment. It has become aggressive. We are sealing off the chamber immediately in light of it's flesh-consuming properties and rapid growth. All research is halted.

[14/7/2007 11:00 AM]

It's gone. God help us, it's escaped!

 _ **Story 2: Genetic Memory**_

Many classic horror icons, such as Giger's Xenomorphs, Silent Hill's Pyramid Head, and other disturbing creatures, share common characteristics. Pale skin, dark, sunken eyes, elongated faces, sharp teeth, and the like. These images inspire horror and revulsion in many, and with good reason. The characteristics shared by these faces are imprinted in the human mind.

Many things frighten humans instinctively. The fear is natural, and does not need to be reinforced in order to terrify. The fears are species-wide, stemming from dark times in the past when lightning could mean the burning of your tree home, thunder could be the approaching gallops of a stampede, predators could hide in darkness, and heights could make poor footing lethal.

The question you have to ask yourself is this: What happened, deep in the hidden eras before history began, that could effect the entire human race so evenly as to give the entire species a deep, instinctual, and lasting fear of pale beings with dark, sunken eyes, razor sharp teeth, and elongated faces?

Well, I'd say be careful out there. But it's a little late for that.


	5. Chapter 5

**_Story 1: We Danced_**

Footsteps aren't an uncommon thing to hear when you're sitting in a basement, so I think nothing of it when I hear quiet thuds coming from my upstairs hallway. I just assume it was my brother and continue doing whatever pointless little thing I was doing at the time. They go on for another couple minutes and I now was starting to get pissed off. They just keep getting louder and louder and I wonder what the hell my brother's doing this late at night. I mean, it sounds like someone's power walking all over my damn floor.

I sit there and listen as the thumps get faster and wilder. They just keep moving, almost starting to form a rhythm. They move even faster and get even wilder and they're thumping all over my main floor. I realize that whatever this is, it can't be human. No human can move like that.

"What the fuck?!" I finally yell. After that, all the noises stop. Everything is quiet for a moment, and then I hear calm, slow footsteps moving toward my basement door. The door is pushed open and the footsteps stop again. I listen to my breathing for the next three minutes, then sigh, thinking it's over. But it turns out something else was listening, too. Suddenly I hear it thudding down the stairs and I knock my chair over in my haste to stand up. I start to run towards the nearest closet, just in time to see a grotesque, hairless, four-legged creature, dancing towards me, tapping it's swollen feet in an intoxicating rhythm. I dive into the closet and slam the door shut. There's a half-second pause and then I hear that same rhythm on the door.

It's been going on for hours now with no pause, no rests, no relief. And I find myself tapping my fingers along with the song. But then, just as suddenly as it began, it ends. I wait for a few moments, then look out. He's gone. I flip on a light and fall into a chair. It's safe. I relax and think for a few moments. But then I notice my foot tapping. Maybe this song isn't so bad. I almost like it enough to dance to it. So I drop down on my hands and feet, and I start dancing.

 _ **Story 2: Your Turn**_

You can see him in your dreams. This man turned your sleepy little mountain town upside down. And everyone's been abuzz since he arrived. Whenever you think about him, the warm glow of contentment suffuses you. **(Why?)** This is the type of person you dream of meeting, you dream of being. What is he doing in a nowhere place like this? It doesn't matter, you tell yourself. **(Yes it does!)** Why look a gift horse in the mouth? The man's done so much for the community, brought you all together. Although, now that you think of it, you can't really of think of what it is exactly that he's done. But the fact that the community's better than ever can't be denied. And who can grudge you a few neighbors for that? In fact, you realize with the tinge of excitement, it's going to be you're turn soon.

You walk to his house **(Nest!)** , even though you know you're early. You can hear Miss. Andrews, the girl from down the street, crying inside. Silly girl always was over-emotional. "Thank you. Thank you." you could hear her say before abruptly cutting off. Her turn now my turn, you think. With a smile on you're face, you rap at the door. After a long moment, the door swings open and the man **(No! Men have faces!)** opens the door. He gestures you inside and you're struck at first by the odor in his house **(Nest!)** before he shuffles you over to one of the chairs. Miss. Andrews is sleeping **(Dead!)** in a nearby chair. Poor girl must've tired herself out. "Is it my turn yet?" you croak. It hurts to speak and you realize you haven't spoken since you met this man. The man **(Thing!)** nods wordlessly and you realize you've never heard his **(It's!)** voice. Somehow, that doesn't matter. You smile and despite yourself, you can't help but shed a tear of gratitude. "Thank you." you say in that same rough voice as he **(It!)** leans closer to you.

You, too, will be host to his eggs.


	6. Chapter 6

**_Story 1: Thanks_**

It's 3:00 AM and you've been up all night on a horror binge. You've watched your favorite horrors movies, read your favorite scary stories, and even attempted the old "Bloody Mary" trick in your mirror. You stretch and yawn, deciding now is about the time to hit the hay, so you move into your bedroom and lay down to sleep. After awhile, however, you realize that you can't get the images of some of the fictional creatures you saw on your TV out of your head. "Meh… I'm going to hate myself for this tomorrow," You say aloud as you flick on your bedroom lamp, knowing that having a nightlight used to help get rid of your nightmares as a little kid. Within minutes, you're close your eyes to sleep, snuggled up comfortably under the blankets with your eyes closed and more pleasant thoughts on your mind. That is, until you detect something moving in front of the light, casting a shadow over you. You blink, beginning to turn towards the lamp before a rotting hand grabs hold of your shoulder. "Thanks for turning on the light. I wouldn't have been able to find you in that darkness."

 ** _Story 2: The Portraits_**

There was a hunter in the woods, who, after a long day hunting, was in the middle of an immense forest. It was getting dark, and having lost his bearings, he decided to head in one direction until he was clear of the increasingly oppressive foliage. After a what seemed like hours, he came across a cabin in a small clearing. Realizing how dark it had grown, he decided to see if he could stay there for the night. He approached and found the door ajar. Nobody was inside. So the hunter flopped down on the single bed, deciding to explain himself to the owner in the morning. As he looked around, he was suprised to see the walls adorned by many portraits, all painted in incredible detail. Without exception, they appeared to be staring down at him, their features twisted into looks of hatred and malice. Staring back, he grew increasingly uncomfortable. Making a concerted effort to ignore the many hateful faces, he turned to face the wall and exhausted, he fell into a restless sleep.

The next morning, as the hunter awoke, he turned blinking in unexpected sunlight. Looking up, he discovered that the cabin had no portraits. Only windows.


	7. Chapter 7

**_Story 1: Don't Worry About It_**

You're slowly stirred awake by the distant ringing as the phone beside your bed pulls you out of your dreams. Your thoughts gather themselves and you groan, reaching over to answer. As soon as you place the phone to your ear, you're greeted by the background noise consisting of twisted screams. There were people in agonizing pain begging for help or death, not that the interference allows you to hear any individual voice clearly enough. "Get out of the house now!" The call ends abruptly after what you could have sworn was a voice from closer to you than on the other end. You shift yourself to the side of the bed, sighing while rubbing your eyes. A call this startling and this early in the morning would keep you awake. Your wife shuffles to the side, apparently also woken by the call. She wraps her arms around you and gives a light kiss on the neck.

"Don't worry about it." Her half-asleep mumble calms you down somewhat. Just as you're about to place the phone down, it rings again. You fumble slightly and drop it. Instead, you feel your wife's arms tighten around you, preventing you from leaning forward. It's then you notice a subtle difference between the arms around you and the familiarity of your wife's. "He's too late to save you anyway."

 ** _Story 2: An Apple a Day_**

Have you ever heard the expression; "An apple a day keeps the doctor away"? Most assume, with no reason to think otherwise, that it is simply an easy-to-remember rhyme that stresses the importance of eating healthy foods to young children. But the saying did not originate as a harmless reminder. It was born in a frontier town in the early years of the Gold Rush, where food was scarce and money even scarcer. One August, when a bad drought had struck the region, a series of bloody killings swept through the town. Every night, a single house would be broken into and anyone who saw the invader would be swiftly, brutally slain. Nothing was ever stolen, except for a few scraps of food.

After two weeks of this, the local grocer set out a few apples and a glass of milk in the town square overnight. He then hid in the tower of the church, hoping to catch a glimpse of anyone who came by. Fighting fatigue, the grocer waited for any sign of life below. Just after midnight, he was rewarded by a chilling sight; a man, carrying a black bag stuffed with dully shining metal tools and covered from head to foot in cloth bandages, staggered into view. He paused at the sight of the apples and milk, then whipped his head around, as if looking for the one who dared to patronize him. Seized with fear, the grocer ducked out of sight, staying hidden until sunrise. The strange man had only taken one of the apples and didn't even touch the glass of milk. No houses were broken into and no one was killed. For decades, the town continued to place out an apple or two every night, even long after a single apple stopped disappearing.


	8. Chapter 8

**_Story 1: The Third Wish_**

An elderly man was sitting alone on a dark path. He wasn't sure of which direction to go, and he'd forgotten both where he was traveling to…and who he was. He'd sat down for a moment to rest his weary legs, and suddenly looked up to see an elderly woman before him.  
She grinned toothlessly and with a cackle, spoke: "Now your third wish. What will it be?"

"Third wish?" The man was baffled. "How can it be a third wish if I haven't had a first and second wish?"

"You've had two wishes already," The hag said, "but your second wish was for me to return everything to the way it was before you had made your first wish. That's why you remember nothing; because everything is the way it was before you made any wishes." She cackled at the poor man. "So it is that you have one wish left."

"All right," he said hesitantly, "I don't believe this, but I guess there's no harm in trying. I wish to know who I am."

"Funny," said the old woman as she granted his wish and disappeared forever. "That was your first wish…"

 _ **Story 2: The Tundra**_

The native villagers around these parts say that there's a stretch of tundra just north of here that is occupied by benevolent spirits. These spirits grant insight and warning to whoever visits them at night, once the sun has disappeared entirely and left the world in jet darkness. I drove out to the middle of the frozen expanse of ice and waited, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever commanded these people's reverence. They send their children out, bundled in furs to keep from freezing, on the eve of their 15th birthday to seek an audience with these spirits. Once they have achieved this, the children run home to their parents to share the news. From then on, these children are considered adults in the village. Engaged couples visit this tundra on the night before their wedding. The entire village stays up all night awaiting their return, as it is upon their return that the couple either decides to proceed with their marriage, or to abandon it. The elderly visit the tundra whenever they are sick or ailing, and often make their condition worse by staying all night in the cold. When they return, however, it is most often with an air of sheer serenity.

So I waited, curious to see what phenomenon might inspire people so powerfully. I waited for hours, bundled in my parka and sitting on the hood of my pickup. I waited until I felt that I was going to freeze to death, even in my thick clothing. I heard the spirit before I saw it. A crunching of snow in the silence made me jump off my truck and spin around. A hunched, gray-skinned man stood a few meters away. Sad, yellowed eyes stared back at me, set inside a skull from which sprouted only a few greasy hairs. He breathed heavily, with a rattle that shook his fragile rib-cage, and one of his arms looked as if it had been messily broken and then neglected, allowing it to knit back together imperfectly. Badly scarred flesh marred his splayed legs. The man stared at me for perhaps ten seconds, breathing in the frigid air and exhaling a sickly dribble of steam, before disappearing when I blinked my eyes.

I spun around, looking for the man, but he was truly gone. Approaching where he had stood, I found a pair of bloody footprints in the snow. Frantic with fear, I got into my pickup and headed for the village as fast as the ice would allow. A few villagers were waiting for me when I arrived, knowing that I had gone out and curious as to what might happen. I hastily got out of my truck and approaching the nearest villager.

I demanded, "What is so benevolent about these spirits? What is so insightful? How do these spirits help you?"

"What did you see?" The man asked, the look on his face now mirroring the fear in mine.

"I saw a man, horribly disfigured and desperately sick!" I screamed into his face, and the rest of the villagers around us backed away a step. "Why? What does that mean!?" I begged him.

"The spirits show only one thing." The man explained. "They show their visitors one year in the future."


	9. Chapter 9

_**Story 1: Thomas's Reflection**_

I am Thomas's reflection. Every morning, he rises from sleep and walks into the bathroom and he makes... _faces_. I am so tired of the faces. He makes them for at least half an hour. Mocking, ridiculous faces! I have no choice but to mimic his every action, although inside I am seething with anger. He does this every day... well, he USED to do it every day. Because, you see, one morning, he awoke as usual, and entered the bathroom.  
On this particular morning, against his will, he picked up a pair of scissors.  
On this particular morning, against his will, he gripped those scissors tightly in his fist.  
And on this particular morning, entirely against his will, he plunged those scissors directly into his right eye.  
Thomas screamed and screamed. I screamed and screamed too - with one difference. I can't mimic his pain. Just. His. Face.

 _ **Story 2: Dream Death**_

Ever die in a dream and then wake up? That just means an alternate you in a different timeline has died. Dreams about yourself are a glimpse into what's going on in alternate versions of yourself. This also would explain why sometimes a person can dream of something, and then have it happen later. You simply have to choose the actions in the dream, and you become the version of yourself from your dream. Your timeline becomes his timeline, and vice versa. Try to be more careful, though. Also, be mindful of what happened to those versions of you who died, will you? Remember: your awoken self is also the dream of another version of a sleeping you.


	10. Chapter 10

**_Story 1: The Forgotten Vending Machine_**

There is a village somewhere in England that has not been inhabited for over twenty years. It has long since been forgotten off of most maps, and only has one road in and out of it. If you manage to find it, it will seem a peaceful enough place, the derelict buildings being overgrown and nature taking back the land for herself. However, somewhere within the village is a vending machine which still has power. It will still have its original look and sell ordinary brands of drink (though with twenty year old packaging). However, the one at the very bottom will be marked "E". Pay only in ten pence pieces to buy this drink.

Before drinking the mysterious beverage, peer inside the can to check it's color. Do not try to pour some out. It will refuse to leave the can, despite any vigorous shaking you may attempt. If it is green in color, drink heartily as it will give you an unnaturally long lifespan and good luck in everything you do. If it is red, however, drinking it will spread a horrific pestilence over you, claiming one of your senses every ten years after the date that you first imbibed.

 ** _Story 2: The Statue_**

A few years ago, a mother and father decided they needed a break, so they wanted to head out for a night on the town. They called their most trusted babysitter. When the babysitter arrived, the two children were already fast asleep in bed. So the babysitter just got to sit around and make sure everything was okay with the children.

Later that night, the babysitter got bored and went to watch TV, but she couldn't watch it downstairs because they did not have cable downstairs (the parents didn't want children watching too much garbage). So, she called them and asked them if she could watch cable in the parent's room. Of course, the parents said it was okay, but the babysitter had one final request... she asked if she could cover up the angel statue outside the bedroom window with a blanket or cloth, because it made her nervous. Or at least close the blinds. The phone line was silent for a moment and the father who was talking to the babysitter at the time said, " _TAKE THE CHILDREN AND GET OUT OF THE HOUSE NOW! WE'LL CALL THE POLICE! WE DON'T HAVE AN ANGEL STATUE!_ "

The police found both of the children and the babysitter slumped in pools of their own blood within three minutes of the call. No statue was found.


	11. Chapter 11

_**Story 1: The Lighthouse**_

There is a small island in the Mediterranean Sea that does not appear on any map. It cannot be seen from any other island, nor can any other land be seen from it. On this island is a lighthouse, rotting from age and sea water, which is never lit. There is nothing inside it, save for a spiraling staircase that leads to the top, and an ancient, dusty bookcase. The case is filled with unmarked books, bound in ancient leather, save for a single space. If you remove a book from the shelf, it will fling itself open in your hands, and the words inscribed in it shall start screaming to the air. You must wrestle the book closed and shove it back on the shelf, or the immortal evil contained within its pages shall break free, and you will be forced to take its place, with pages, ink and binding crafted from your own flesh and blood. However, if you bring the correct book to the island, and place it in the empty space, the lighthouse will light. As long as it is lit, the world shall enjoy an unending paradise, for all the evil in the world will be contained in the lighthouse. And while it is lit, nothing can go in or out.

The only problem is that you will be trapped for eternity in there with all the evil ever known or conceived, by man or god. The only way to escape...is to douse the light.

 _ **Story 2: Her Name**_

It wasn't a big deal at first, you know? It was just another story online, one you'd read in the comments of a YouTube video, designed to scaring you into posting it on eight other videos. You know the kind, where you die a horrible death or your crush will reject you if you don't spread the word? I didn't think anything of it at the time, but now it's the only thing I can think about. The comment started by saying that "she hasn't left me alone in days" and "by reading this, she'll come for you." I don't even remember the exact wording because it was late and I was tired and I'd seen a hundred other comments like it before.

I forgot all about it.

Until she started coming after me.

It started with little things. A flash in the corner of my vision, a strange shadow on the hallway floor. Then it got worse. I started to hear whispering when I was alone in the house, giggling, the sound of footsteps. I now know that she was teasing me. Sort of like how a cat will clamp its paw over a mouse's tail and bat at it before it kills it. Mirrors were the worst. She liked to stand just out of frame when I was brushing my hair, so when I shifted my head to get the other side, she would be there, standing next to the bookshelf, with her long, tangled hair, matted with blood, falling down her shoulders. And that grin.

Oh, God, that grin. Her teeth were always bloody. I was never sure if it was her blood, or… I don't even know. Every night, it seemed to get worse. I would see her on my way to class, in the rear view mirror of my car, dragging her talon-like fingernails across her own, rotting flesh as I stared in abject terror. For a while I put it off to sleep deprivation. Finals, you know? And then she came to me. It was late, so late it was technically early. I couldn't sleep because all I could hear was her giggling. I covered my face with the pillow and shut my eyes tight, when I felt something cold on my hand.  
I was paralyzed with fear. It was sharp and it was cold and it was moving down my arm towards my elbow.

"Come out to play." She said in that lilting, upsetting voice I'd heard one too many times before.  
I screamed and sat up, but she was gone. For the moment.  
My biggest mistake was when I talked to her. I'd just stepped out of the shower and she was right there when I opened the curtains. I shrieked and stumbled back and she leaned down to me. "Why?" I asked.  
"Why are you doing this?" She told me why. It was because I knew something about her. That altercation ended with a serious head injury that landed me in the hospital. That's where I am now.  
I can't take this anymore. I'm just one person, it's too much. I know what I have to do. I think I always knew.  
God, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.  
Her name is Nora. She should be there soon.


	12. Chapter 12

**_Story 1: The Thing in the Window_**

That thing has been there for almost a week. The figure in the window. It looks featureless, only skin on a human frame, and it's pressing itself against the glass somehow. I don't know how it got there, and I don't know how to get rid of it. At first I thought it was a prank, a doll or mannequin that some jerks put there to scare me. But I realized as I walked out of my house to pull it away... it wasn't there. I shrugged it off, thinking that someone had hidden it while I was walking through my door. But I went back in and looked out that same window, and it was looking in, staring at me. I walked around my house, yelling for whoever it was to come out, but no one was there. The thing is hairless and naked, and it didn't look like it actually had eyes, or even a face at all. But its head is turned towards me when I enter the room. When I sit on my computer, I can feel it's faceless hatred boring into my neck. But when I turn around, it's innocently turned in a different direction. Finally on Thursday, I tried to open the window, but it's stuck. I think the thing's hands are keeping it down. But I got a good look at it's face. It's eyes and mouth are behind the skin, pushing outward.

It stared at me, smiling. I pulled back a fist and smashed it onto the glass, determined once and for all to get rid of the glaring monster. I know I'm strong enough. That glass should've cracked. But it didn't. It shuddered under my hand, but it didn't break. And that smile just got wider and wider and wider, until I thought its head would break in half. It raised its own hand and bashed the window with its palm. It was mocking me. But I saw the faintest crack begin to appear where it had hit, and I backed away. No way did I want that smile in the same room as me. So I got a roll of duct tape, and I started covering the window. I couldn't look directly at it, but I couldn't help it. I took a quick glance at that skin-covered face. A small peek. It was angry.

That menacing grin was now a gaping frown full of teeth. The skin had ripped away from its mouth and I could see down its cavernous throat. A menacing rumble started to fill the house, and that hairline crack began to spread like splintering ice. I pulled down the duct tape. The rumble stopped, the split skin healed over, and it began to smile again. Now it's night, and the noise hasn't started again. There are no sounds, no rumble, no crackling glass. Everything's quiet now. But I can feel it's claws gripping the back of my chair. I can hear its skin stretching as it smiles.

It's watching me type.

 _ **Story 2: The Thing That Stalks the Fields**_

It was a few weeks ago that the hay bales started creeping slowly away from the house. Every morning when I woke up, each had moved a few hundred feet from where it was before. I assumed it was pranksters with nothing better to do, so I ignored a few days, though, the bales began to approach the boundaries of the farm. I was tired of the whole game by then, and decided to move them back. It took a tedious hour to bring them all from where they were to over near the house again, and by the time I was done I was ready to snap the neck of whatever little pissant was deciding to screw with me. The next morning, I found each and every one of my horses messily decapitated. The smell was what woke me up. Each one was slumped over against the side of its stall. There were no signs of the heads. I spent the rest of the day cleaning up the mess and burying the remains. It was only when I was done that I noticed the bales of hay had all returned to their positions from the day before, scattered far out into the fields. This time I left them where they were. That night I sat on my porch with my shotgun in hand and a pot of coffee on the table beside me. I sat for hours, straining my eyes into the fields to catch a glimpse of who was moving my hay bales. Finally, I was beginning to nod off. I would have, but just as my eyes began to close I heard a clamor and a rustling of trees from the nearby woods. I leaned forward, my heart racing with excitement; I was going to catch the bastard. I fumbled with my gun and fidgeted in my seat, waiting anxiously for whoever it was to get close enough to ambush. It was only when the thing got close enough for me to make out its silhouette in the dark that I was frozen still. The thing that crept into my fields from the nearby woods didn't seem to notice me sitting there.

It stalked, hunched and deliberate, through the field with the posture of a tiptoeing thief. If not for the fact that it must have towered to over ten feet tall even in it's crouched position, it might have seemed almost frail. The thinness of its arms and legs and the emaciated, caved-in quality of its chest reminded me of a starving animal. Still, this thing was undeniably strong, and I watched it hoist each bale up into its arms with ease, and set it down carefully a while away, taking only a few strides to cover the distance. I watched it work, moving each bale thoughtfully. Every once in a while it would straighten up to look around at the other bales' positions in the field, before adjusting the one it was working on ever so slightly. Before it left, it looked towards the house. I felt its eyes sweep over me in the dark, but whether it saw me or not I couldn't tell. Then, it turned silently and crept back the way it came, disappearing into the dark of the woods. It took me an hour before I had the courage to move at all. I went inside after a while, but didn't sleep that night. It was only when the sun rose that I dared step off my porch into the fields. The hay bales were where it left them. Strangely, it didn't move them as far as it had in the previous days.

They were approaching something invisible in the fields, and as I looked at them I realized that they seemed to be marking some line. Indeed, as I walked around the house, I saw the distinct circle that they formed with me at the center. At first I thought the bales were just being haphazardly moved away from the house, but now I could see that they were instead being moved towards some boundary. The thing was sending me a message. I slept uneasily that night, and only because I was exhausted.

The next morning the bales hadn't moved at all. They didn't move at all for the rest of that week, in fact. They were finally where the thing wanted them. I made myself sick trying to interpret them. Why would this thing expend so much energy moving my hay bales, and threaten me with such violence should I try to interfere? Killing my horses was just that - a threat. An intelligent threat, at that. It knew what would scare me, and it knew that I would understand the implications. The sound of an automobile working its way along the road to my farm one morning gave me a little rush of excitement. I'd been planning to abandon the farm since I saw the thing, but I couldn't hope to leave on foot without risking it treating me like it treated my horses. But, if I could get in the car with whoever was coming my way, I might be able to escape before it could stop me. I didn't know or care who it was. I decided that the moment they stopped the car, I would jump in the passenger's seat and tell them to get the hell out of here. I didn't get the chance. The car worked it's way slowly along the road, trundling across the uneven ground. I urged it silently to hurry. It was when it passed between the two bales placed on either side of the road that I began to hear a booming clatter from the woods. The thing burst suddenly from between the trees, sprinting on all four of it's terrible, gangly limbs towards the car. Within a few seconds, it was there, pouncing on the automobile like a predatory cat. Within moments it was picking and peeling the vehicle's steel frame apart, working to get at the driver.

The man, whoever he was, screamed all the while and I could hear him even over the crunching of metal and the shattering of glass. It was only when the thing crushed him carelessly in its hand that the screaming stopped. It tossed him away, and straightened up to look at me once again. In the sunlight, I could see the inhumanity of it. It was composed entirely of something awful and alive which was lashed together in a messy semblance of a human form. Whatever it was made of looked so polished and hard, that if it weren't for the minute writhing of the stuff, I'd think it was made of granite.

The thing retreated back into the woods, and I was left to my shock. My eyes wandered to where the car sat, the engine still sputtering, between two of the hay bales. Suddenly, I understood. The message was clear. I am this thing's captive, and I am not allowed visitors. Nothing may cross the borders it has set. I'm trapped here, by the thing that stalks the fields, and it demands nothing except that I never leave. Still, I don't know if I can handle being that thing's canary. I've been thinking hard for the last few days since I saw it crush that man's chest, and silence him before he could finish his scream. If I crossed the hay bale border, it'd probably do the same. It'd smash my skull before I could put my hands up to protect myself. It'd go and find a new pet, and probably keep looking until it found someone who could stand knowing that it was waiting just outside, watching it at all hours with its shiny, insect eyes. I've been thinking hard for the last few days and I might just make a run for it.


End file.
